there is a childrens song
in my taxidermied heart.
it plays every time
someone opens the door
to purchase me.
they count their money
and consider their options
as they browse the room
and i convince them
the product is defective
or unsafe for small children
or obsolete or spilling fluids
and containing harsh chemicals
and they thank me while looking confused as they leave,
opening the door,
while my heart plays
a dying carousel tune
for one of the last times.
waiting
for my usefulness
to wear out
as i become
a relic
sought after by
the possessive
the obsessive
the deranged
the lonely.
a collectible
with no value
serving my purpose
to a collector
who understands
value.